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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737633">One Other Gaudy Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lopezuna/pseuds/lopezuna'>lopezuna</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:14:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lopezuna/pseuds/lopezuna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harriet said No at the end of Gaudy Night, but life continues.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lord Peter Makes a Will</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nineveh_uk">Nineveh_uk</a> for encouragement and feedback back when most of this lived on LJ. Borrows the central conceit from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/87705">They came, you know and told me you were dead.</a></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>August 1942. Alternative universe. Lord Peter makes a will.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lord Peter Wimsey arranged the final set of papers neatly in a manila folder, and placed them in the suitcase on the floor beside him. Murbles had sent a copy of his latest will to join the deeds of ownership related to the estate in a fire-proof box in a warehouse north of London. But one never knew. Tomorrow he would take the suitcase down to Duke's Denver on his last visit before leaving for France. </p>
<p>Wimsey was seated at the desk in his library overlooking Green Park, shirtsleeves rolled up and collar open in the heat of August. The room, formerly one of the most elegant bachelor rooms in London, was showing the effects of time and war. The bookshelves stood empty, the priceless volumes having been removed for safekeeping in the countryside at the first hint of bombardment. The sofas and easy chairs were covered with dust sheets. Only the baby grand piano remained as it had always been, the difficulty of finding piano movers during the Blitz having defeated even the indefatigable Bunter.</p>
<p>He was at this time in his early fifties, but if it had not been for the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, Wimsey would easily have passed for a man ten years younger. His figure was as lean and spare as it had always been (perhaps aided somewhat by the clean living enforced by both wartime service and general rationing). His hair had receded at the temples and was fading to silver. But rather than aging him, this gave him an air of restrained dignity in striking contrast to his formerly silly-ass-about-town persona. </p>
<p>This latest will had been the cause of some mental agony. With his mother in her late seventies, and knowing that he was unlikely to return from this mission, Lord Peter had concluded that it would be best to leave the bulk of the real property to his nephew (and heir to the dukedom) and great-nephews. Of course, he had set aside a very generous annuity for Bunter, and something for his sister's children, along with bequests to various charities. But Lord Peter had reverted to type, and even with the world as he knew it collapsing around his ears, a gentleman knew what was due to the family. </p>
<p>No, the agony was not in deciding to leave the money to his nephew and heirs, it was in setting up a trust in such a way as to cover all the possible contingencies that arose when one's nephew was an RAF pilot whose rackety exploits on the ground matched the peril he faced in the air, his wife of 18 months standing a scatter-brained socialite, and the great-nephews in question aged but 13 months and 6 weeks. Lord Peter knew his brother worried about leaving the title in those hands. But though the circumstances were not ideal, he was himself grateful that the burden of the succession no longer lay with him, giving him a freedom to risk his own life in the service of his country.</p>
<p>That accounted for the business aspects of his leave-taking. With an expression of distaste, he squared his shoulders to deal with the disposal of the trinkets on the desk in front of him. In a small box lay the ruby (no trinket, that) which he had once hoped to place on the finger of the woman who even yet held his heart. That dream had been relinquished long ago, and in the intervening years he had achieved a measure of peace in devoting his energies to less egotistical ends than pursuing her. But now, on the verge of almost certain death, he toyed with the stone. </p>
<p>He had not seen Harriet since they parted. Professionally, he could not help but know that she had gone from strength to strength. She was simultaneously a bestselling author of escapist fiction, the first choice of reading matter in public air-raid shelters, and the toast of literary London. As to her personal life, he had no idea, and had made some effort not to know. He had long ago burned his collection of press cuttings, and the only keepsakes that remained were the few letters she had written to him in the last months of their acquaintance, a first edition of Death Twixt Wind and Water, and the ruby. He was briefly tempted to leave a letter for her, enclosing with it the stone. But the words congealed on the paper. He could find no way to express himself that was neither pathetic nor insulting.</p>
<p>Instead, he tossed the crumpled sheet of paper in the wastepaper basket, and started afresh. "My dear Leonie," he began. Spectacular Leonie, larger than life, who had entertained him for some years in the 20s. He had renewed their acquaintance in New York, on one of those fruitless missions of Van's to persuade the Americans to form an alliance against Germany. They had still had some residual tenderness for each other, but it had not been an unmitigated success. She was touched by the shadow of her hasty departure from Austria, while he was out of practice in both the levity she needed more than ever, and in the arts of love. Still, he smiled fondly at the memory. He could not very well send her the ruby by post, but he would leave it for her to collect in London when the war was over, as surely it would end, whether he was there to see it or not.</p>
<p>Some time later, having decided what to do with signet ring, DSO, and various other items of remembrance, and written the associated personal messages with a grim sort of determination, he rang the bell for Bunter and the sealing wax.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Denver Ducis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>August 1942. Lord Peter says goodbye to his loving family. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lord Peter took the train to Duke's Denver the next day, a Saturday. The journey was long and tedious, the train stopping frequently in the middle of nowhere for no obvious reason. As the hot countryside unspooled before him, his thoughts returned unwillingly, inevitably, to the final argument with Menzies and Nelson, and to his reluctant conclusion that even by going to the very top, he would not be able to dissuade them from carrying out this reckless mission. That was the point where he had turned his energies to making the best of a bad situation, eventually feeling compelled to volunteer himself - a man without dependents - to save others from having to participate. But this decision still weighed on him, not so much because he feared what he saw as certain death, but because given what he knew, if he were to fall alive into enemy hands, it could cost untold lives in addition to his own. </p><p>Should he have sacrificed his honour and stayed the course? Perhaps. Perhaps he was too addicted to the grand gesture, while this business of politics set up a constant collision course between different sets of principles, and one had necessarily to decide to sacrifice one in favour of another.</p><p>Almost more worrying was the fact that, despite knowing what he knew, none of the mandarins had attempted to dissuade him from going. By God, but if England won this war, it would be despite itself, despite a fractured patchwork of overlapping institutions and personalities, each constantly fighting with the other for precedence, each seemingly unable to look beyond its own narrow short-term interests to comprehend a bigger purpose. </p><p>He was all out of joint with the world, and no way to set it right, not the ideal mood in which to say one’s last goodbyes. In the last war, he had made this journey, many times, to say these same goodbyes. But then it had been different. The confidence of youth in its own invincibility had buoyed him up - he had come to say au revoir, but not adieu. Now, age and experience weighed him down, and he longed for a little of that youthful insouciance. </p><p>Wimsey’s mood was not improved by arriving, three hours later than planned, into the middle of a minor domestic crisis. </p><p>The Duchess of Denver, recently returned from a week-long speaking tour of the provinces on behalf of the Ministry of Instruction and Morale, had discovered that almost a month’s worth of sugar rations for the household had disappeared in her absence. The cook, outraged at the Duchess’s accusation of theft, had tendered her resignation. The Duke then brought a storm down upon his head by admitting sheepishly that he had taken advantage of his wife's absence to order a succession of sweet puddings. He did not improve matters with the tentative suggestion that given his efforts to have the estate contribute to the production of food for the war effort, it should be possible to make up the missing ration through some unorthodox means. His wife met this proposal with frosty hostility, implying that making use of the black market was the worst kind of treason, though she did persuade the cook to return, by dint of an abject apology, and more to the point, by raising her wages. </p><p>In the early days of the War, the West Wing had served as the billet for a boys' school, but now the Hall had been taken over in its entirety by the Army, and the family had moved into the Dower house for the duration. These accommodations were somewhat cramped, especially with the presence of a number of guests. Mr and Mrs Pettigrew-Robinson were staying for a rest-cure. Mrs Pettigrew-Robinson had been suffering from acute nervous trouble for some years, exacerbated when their home in Putney suffered a direct hit in the spring of the previous year. In an unguarded moment, the Duke had invited them to stay for as long as they liked, which they promptly proceeded to do. The easygoing Colonel Marchbanks who had come for a spot of fishing would under normal circumstances have been a welcome addition to the party. But his previous anti-Soviet stance was an unexpected source of friction with the Duchess, who in a remarkable volte-face, was taking a strong line in support of this recent ally. </p><p>Meanwhile, her daughter-in-law had fallen into a depression after her recent confinement, and was refusing to leave her room. This created (at least in the eyes of her mother-in-law) all kinds of unnecessary work for the two remaining housemaids. The infant who was the cause of all this trouble had a lusty pair of lungs, and appeared to be suffering from colic, causing his inexperienced nursemaid to dissolve into tears and threaten to leave to become a land girl. As a result, none of the members of the resident party had had much sleep. </p><p>Only the Dowager Duchess and Lady Mary Parker looked on with some bemusement, perhaps assisted by the fact that their bedrooms were those most distant from the nursery.</p><p>"I do hope, Peter, that you’ve brought your ration book," said the Duchess, with more than her usual acidity, as they sat down to dinner.</p><p>"I’m sorry, Helen, old thing, I didn’t realize you needed it. But I promise I won’t impose on you for more than one night, and Bunter sends a basket of provisions with his compliments."</p><p>"No doubt improperly obtained," sniffed the Duchess.</p><p>"Oh, you know Bunter, he’s more proper than any of us," replied Lord Peter. "In 25 years, I've never known Bunter to do anything illegal. Unless I asked him to, of course."</p><p>"Amazin' fellow, that Bunter," said the Duke. "I'll wager Peter never has to worry about putting a square meal in front of his guests." </p><p>"Gerald!" began the Duchess, wrathfully.</p><p>"Peter never had a sweet tooth," interjected the Dowager Duchess quickly, "not even as a boy. I must say, Helen, you really ought to be able to control Gerald a bit better. He used to be quite civilized. But I do feel bad for the poor people in Town. At least here in the countryside, we can get fresh food without having to queue for it. Peter, dear, you don’t look like you’ve been eating properly!"</p><p>"Too busy serving his country, eh?" added Colonel Marchbanks, eager to smooth over a rough patch in the conversation. "We don't need details, my boy, but we know somebody has to do it, and we're damned grateful to you, damned grateful. Served in three wars myself, and would serve in this one too, if they would have me. Between you and Jerry, nobody can say the Wimseys don't do their duty. How is young Jerry, by the way?"</p><p>"Yes, Peter, how is Jerry?" asked Helen, rather pointedly.</p><p>"I'm sure you've seen him more recently than I have," replied Lord Peter.</p><p>"That boy pays more attention to you than to his own parents," said the Duke with some heat. "And I don't mind saying to your face that you're a pernicious influence."</p><p>"Saint-George is a grown man. I don't see how he can possibly be my responsibility."</p><p>Helen waved this comment away. </p><p>"Don't be ridiculous, Peter," she said. "And can you please talk your brother about this notion of his to hand the estate over to the National Trust. I know all about death duties, but he seems determined to take the roof from over our heads before he's even dead." She looked beadily at her husband. "It's pointless to deny it, Gerald, you invited that nasty little man to look the place over again while I was away. What did he say about the furniture this time? Was it "quite good" enough for him?"</p><p>The Duke did not look the slightest bit discomfited by this accusation. </p><p>"He particularly admired the panelling in the library. I made that helpful Irish officer take the drapes down and show him around. Of course what he really wants is the Dower House, but I told him he'd have to leave us some place to live, what?"</p><p>After the meal, the Duke’s adherence to the masculine ritual of port and cigars having fallen victim to the war, the entire party repaired to the drawing-room to listen to the 9 o’clock news. </p><p>"For God’s sake, I hope it’s not that Pickles fellow again, grumbled the Duke. Don’t understand a word he says."</p><p>The announcer reported that the German Army was pushing on towards Stalingrad unimpeded.</p><p>"The Russians have never yet won a war against a first-class power, and why should they start now," said the Colonel. "Don't know why Winston jumped into bed with those Bolshies. I hope it doesn't turn out to be the death of us."</p><p>"How can you talk that way about our allies?" asked the Duchess, frostily. "Anyone would think you wanted us to lose the war."</p><p>"No offence meant, no offence," replied the Colonel hastily, fearful of dropping another conversational bomb.</p><p>At long last, the uncomfortable evening drew to a close, and Wimsey retired dog-tired, to what rest he could reasonably hope to get between the wails of his great-nephew, and the unceasing importunities of his own moral scruples. </p><p>When he came down to breakfast the next morning, his brother and sister-in-law had already left for church, none of the other members of the party had yet arisen, and the only person in the breakfast-room was Lady Mary, peacefully reading the Times and drinking a cup of tea.</p><p>She offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.</p><p>"Hullo, old girl, it’s been an age since I saw you."</p><p>"I know," she replied, "Though I’m not the one who disappears mysteriously to unknown destinations for months on end."</p><p>He grimaced in response. He had spent most of the past three years shuttling between Buckinghamshire and London, but if his family wanted to believe otherwise, it was better not to disabuse them.</p><p>"How is Charles? We never seem to manage to be in Town at the same time."</p><p>"Apallingly busy, poor man. The Force is completely short-handed. He was able to come down last weekend, and the children were ecstatic. He misses you. He says crime is not what it was. No finesse at all these days."</p><p>Lord Peter helped himself to toast and a cup of tea. There was neither butter nor margarine. But the tea at least was pukka, for the Duchess had with perhaps more luck than forethought laid in several cases shortly before the war began. </p><p>"And how are you holding up? I’m sorry, old thing, leaving you to handle the zoo on your own."</p><p>"It has its entertaining moments, you’d be surprised. It all depends on how one approaches it. Helen --"</p><p>"Gosh, Helen was in historic form last night. I really should show my face a little more often. But I’m welcomed with such open arms every time I come."</p><p>Mary laughed. "Oh you know better than to take Helen seriously. She’s actually been enjoying herself traveling around for the Ministry, and poor Gerald has been feeling unwonted spousal neglect. But these past weeks, what with Gillian, and the baby… and then some little bird told her that Jerry had leave after the baby was born, but he chose not to tell anyone and spent it in London with the-lord-knows-who…"</p><p>Wimsey rolled his eyes.</p><p>"Oh dear, no. So that’s why…"</p><p>"Yes. Though I've no idea why she thinks you are responsible. Anyhow, now her sympathies are divided. She’s always resented Gillian, I think - disliked the process, though she formally had to approve of the outcome. But now she sees herself in her daughter-in-law. And Gerald didn’t help matters by laughing like a drain when she told him, even though as you see, he was quite as angry as she was... Actually, that’s one of the things that makes this place easier to take. I’m reminded every day how happy I am to be married to a man who isn’t a bit like my brother."</p><p>"Oh, Gerald’s not a bad old stick," said Peter.</p><p>"As long as you’re not a woman, he’s not," she replied, a little tartly.</p><p>"I suppose," he answered equably. </p><p>He paused a little before asking: "And Mother? She seemed a little more meandering than usual last night."</p><p>"Oh, Peter, she worries about you. You always were her white-headed boy. She thinks something’s up. She says you can’t fool a mother’s intuition."</p><p>He waved a hand in disclaimer.</p><p>"Something’s always up. I’ll talk with her later. I say, should you like to join me for a turn in the park? I could use the exercise."</p><p>"Of course, I'd love to. And if we get bored, you can help me pick raspberries. Just let me go and change my shoes, and I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes."</p><p>They skirted the terrace, and set off on a path that led through some trees, past an open area of ground being used by the Army as a firing range. </p><p>"Is Gerald serious about the National Trust, or is he just doing it to annoy Helen?" asked Peter.</p><p>"I think he's serious," replied his sister. "I actually liked the man who came out to see the place, and so did Mother. An awful snob, and the most scurrilous gossip I ever met, but he has a real feel for period stuff. And honestly, I don't see that there's really much choice in the matter."</p><p>"I know, he replied gloomily. That's the devil of it. By rights, I shouldn't give a toss, but I'll be sorry to see the old place go."</p><p>"You're such a fraud, Peter," she said, smiling. "You pretend to be all cosmopolitan and sophisticated, but when it comes down to it, you're a reactionary, just like Gerald."</p><p>He came to halt at a bridge over a small stream, and turned to lean on the railing, watching the sluggish water below.</p><p>"Polly, do you have any regrets about life?"</p><p>At this rather surprising turn in the conversation, she looked quickly at him to gauge his mood, and then deciding that he was serious, turned back to the water. </p><p>"Well," she answered. "There are many things I might have done with my life that I didn’t have the opportunity to do. Oxford, for example. Father wouldn't hear about it, and Mother never stood up to him, and then there was the war, and then it was too late."</p><p>"I never knew you wanted to go to Oxford," he said, surprised.</p><p>"Well, you never asked," she replied, and then continued, a little more gently. "I might not have been good enough anyway, though of course nobody ever said that of a man. But I’m resolved that my daughter, at least, will have the opportunity to go, if she wants to."</p><p>"Very proper too," he interjected, and made a sign for her to go on.</p><p>"Apart from that… I made mistakes, but then we all do. Lord, when I think about George - you remember George Goyles? I ran into him last year, and he told me that the only thing worse than being an aristocrat was being a petit-bourgeois, and I had managed to be both…"</p><p>"That fellow always did speak his mind," interjected her brother with a sly grin.</p><p>"But I muddled through. I married a good man. Charles may be lacking in imagination, but he's as decent as they come."</p><p>Peter nodded his assent.</p><p>"I’ve never been made a fool of the way Helen’s been made a fool of… Then there are the children, who’ve been a lot more fun than I ever imagined when I was elbow-deep in dirty napkins. Charles wanted to send small Peter to prep school years ago, you know. We fought over it. Probably you don't want to know that, but you did ask. He wanted him to have all the opportunities that he never had. But I told him no. I remembered you crying for Mother every night before term started, and I reminded him that Gerald did exactly the same thing with Saint-George, and look how well that turned out. And now you see, Peterkin’s doing very well, and Charles is happy we waited until he was older… Though one never knows now, of course, whether any of this is going to matter, and whether we’re going to live to see the end of it."</p><p>She turned her back to the water to look at him.</p><p>"What about you?" she asked curiously.</p><p>"Oh, I don’t know," he replied uneasily. "Sometimes I wonder." He paused, and then began again. "I wonder whether I shouldn’t have done something more… important." He broke off. "-- God what an egotistical thing to say. No, I mean, I kept busy since the war, with detecting, then the Foreign Office. But it was always dabbling - not like Charles. I sometimes wonder whether, if I had - concentrated instead on one thing, whether I could have helped, in some small way, to… to avoid all this." He waved his arm in a general way, not to indicate the peaceful countryside around them, but the conflagration taking place across the sea.</p><p>"You always did have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility," she said, smiling. "You don’t seriously think that all this is your fault?"</p><p>He grinned self-deprecatingly.</p><p>"Well at least you didn’t say that I have an overdeveloped sense of my own importance."</p><p>Then she began again, a little uncertainly. </p><p>"But do you ever regret other things. Like not… settling down?"</p><p>"If you mean like Gerald, no, I don’t regret it," he replied with a touch of humor. "But more seriously yes, it is something I think about sometimes --" </p><p>He paused again, thinking, not for the first time, if only I hadn’t been such an ass to Harriet, things might have worked out between us, and now I would be an indulgent husband and paterfamilias, basking in complacency. Though how then could I have done what I am about to do now?</p><p>"-- But more recently, I have come to have less confidence in my ability to pull off that kind of thing."</p><p>"What makes you say that?" she asked. Something in the tone of his voice alarmed her more than all of the previous unexpected confidences, and she was reminded of her mother's concern.</p><p>"Polly," he said, hunched over the railing deliberately not looking at her. "Something’s come up. It’s a damned mess, but I couldn’t say no, and I won't be coming back. You have to take care of Mother."</p><p>"I’m sure you’re overreacting," she said, uncertainly.</p><p>"No, not this time. This is pretty much a dead cert. But I’ve left my affairs in order. Murbles has instructions, and I’ll leave a suitcase with papers down here just in case. I’ve made you the executor. His voice took on a note of appeal. You’ll take care of things for me, won’t you, Polly?"</p><p>"Of course I will, Peter. Though I hope it won’t be necessary."</p><p>"Thank you," he replied.</p><p>He took her arm, and they continued along the path beside the stream. </p><p>"Do you remember when you were five, and I wanted you to be Ophelia so I could be Hamlet? And I never thought about the fact that you couldn't swim…"</p><p>"It's probably just as well I don't remember," she answered. "I hope Mother gave you a good whipping, for you certainly deserved it."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dieppe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>August 1942. Lord Peter comes a cropper. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lord Peter leaned on the railing, looking back as the shadowy cliffs receded into the distance. The night was cloudy, but calm, and the splash of the wake was barely audible above the low thrum of the engines. Behind him he heard the scrape of a match and the sudden flare of flame. Walker joined him at the stern. </p><p>"Thanks," said Wimsey, accepting the offered cigarette. </p><p>Walker had been assigned to shadow him on this mission. It was Walker's job to make sure the mission was a success. And in the case of failure, it was Walker's job to make sure that Wimsey did not fall into the wrong hands. </p><p>Walker was wiry and sun-tanned, with blue eyes that seemed permanently fixed on some faraway point on the horizon. He was some eight or nine years younger than Wimsey, old enough to have served in the last war, young enough to enlist in this one. He did not talk much about himself, separated as he was by age and experience from the younger officers and men. Wimsey was not inclined to talk either. There was after all not much point trying to strike up an acquaintance with the man who would be one's executioner. But he could not help noticing the absence of a wedding band on the man's finger, and the breath of Cape Town in his accent. </p><p>They smoked together in silence for some minutes. </p><p>"You ready?" asked Walker. </p><p>Wimsey grunted his assent. Walker looked around briefly. </p><p>"You know," he began, "I haven't seen much action this time out, but something about this set-up reminds me of Passchendaele. Lambs to the slaughter, and all that. I don't know what you're here to get, but it damn well better be worth it." </p><p>He paused and held up a hand. </p><p>"Don't worry, I don't want to know. What I don't know, Jerry can't ask me." </p><p>He reached into his pocket, and passed something over. Wimsey fingered the dog tags thoughtfully. After a moment's hesitation, he reached for his own, and passed them to the other man. He replaced Walker's tags in his pocket beside the tin with the cyanide pill. Walker took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed the butt in a red arc over the water. </p><p>"Going below to get some rest. See you later."</p><p>***</p><p>Some hours later, Wimsey was running down a white road with Walker as fire rained down from the sky and the ground shook. </p><p>"Keep up!" roared the younger man, "We can make it!" </p><p>But the shore was far off, the boats already retreating, and Wimsey's lungs were bursting. </p><p>Suddenly something stung his leg, and he found himself rolling in the white dust, carried forward by his own momentum. Walker turned briefly to look, then kept running. </p><p>Wimsey tried to scramble up, but his leg crumpled under him. He touched the thigh where it stung, and his hand came away wet. A wave of pain hit, and he scrambled to open the tin with the pill. Then something exploded close by him, and everything went black.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Other Way Round</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>May 1945. Lord Peter returns. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harriet Vane looked out over Mecklenburgh Square. She did not see the crater, covered now with daisies, or the ragged gap in the houses on the other side. Instead she saw the Cherwell, on a sunny May afternoon long ago. There were green willows glowing in the honey-coloured light, ducks quacking, and a gramophone playing "Love in Bloom." </p>
<p>She held in her hands a letter, of a kind impossible to ignore. It was from Peter Wimsey. Peter Wimsey, back from the dead. Peter, to whom Harriet owed so much. He was recently returned to England after a long absence, and he asked diffidently if she would do him the favor of reassuring him that all was well with her? </p>
<p>If Peter were diffident, it was only natural. After a tempestuous five years of pursuing Harriet, he had finally accepted her answer; No, she would not marry him. Since then, she had not heard from him. From time to time, she had been tempted to write - to send him the novel she had dedicated to him, or to express her gratitude to him for encouraging her to write what she needed to write. But she appreciated the fact that he had respected her answer, and she did not want to pain him further by reminding him of what he had once wanted and could not have. </p>
<p>In time, Harriet met another man whom she thought she could love. A friend introduced her to an up-and-coming young barrister. John made her laugh, and forget the past, and they were engaged. But when it came down to it, Harriet found that she could not bring herself to marry a man with clumsy hands. Although she had refused him for fear of being swallowed up by him, Peter Wimsey had spoiled her for other men. </p>
<p>And so she had dedicated herself to her work, and had come to realize that she was happy to be alone in the world, an observer, detached, rather than a participant. As the years passed, fewer and fewer people cared about or even remembered the stigma that had once attached to her name. Her work enjoyed both critical and commercial success. Even the war, with its shortage of paper, had not much affected her career. For with desperate shortages of everything, there was also a desperate need for escape, and the novels of Miss Harriet Vane provided this to a hungry public. </p>
<p>Then came the shock of Peter's death. She had stood in the back at his memorial service and shed tears, for him, and for the road not traveled, knowing that her choice had been the right one, but at the same time mourning for what might have been. </p>
<p>In the aftermath, Harriet struck up an unlikely correspondence with Peter's mother. She had written to the Dowager Duchess, explaining that she was an old friend of her son's, and deeply distressed to learn of his passing. Quite unexpectedly, Peter's mother had replied kindly that of course she knew who Harriet was, and that it was a great comfort to her to know that he was remembered warmly. Over the years, Harriet had sent her a note every August on the anniversary of the Dieppe Raid. </p>
<p>The previous Christmas, the Dowager Duchess had written to Harriet that an escaped POW had reported that Peter was alive, in a camp for officers in Southwest Germany. The camp had recently been liberated by the Americans, and he had been back in England for some weeks, but was only now at liberty to write to her.</p>
<p>Harriet wrote quickly without stopping to think too much. </p>
<p>Dear Peter,</p>
<p>Many thanks for your kind inquiry. I am quite well, and I hope this finds you well too. I understand from your Mother that you are currently with her in Duke's Denver. But if you should find occasion to come up to Town, I would be delighted to see you again. </p>
<p>Yours,</p>
<p>Harriet D Vane</p>
<p>Some days later, Harriet waited for Wimsey at the Savoy. As she scanned the lunchtime crowd, she wondered whether she would recognize him. Harriet had been in prison herself; it had changed her, but not in a way that was visible to the naked eye. On the other hand, recent news reports of camps in Germany told of unspeakable horrors, and she did not know whether the man who had returned would bear any physical resemblance to the man she once knew. Even more uncertain was whether the feelings he once had for her would have stood the test of time and circumstance. </p>
<p>As it happened, she need not have worried. She picked him out at once as he entered, the familiar beaked nose, and long jaw unmistakeable. But he looked around with an uncharacteristic vagueness, very different from the air of ownership she remembered, and her heart unexpectedly turned over. </p>
<p>The waiter showed him to her table, and she saw that he was gaunt and aged beyond his years, his face deeply marked by lines. The hands were the same, though, those long sensitive hands which haunted her dreams. He took her fingers in a firm grasp, and brought them to his lips. She knew in that instant how this meeting would end, kissing passionately in a taxi on the way to her flat, those vital hands on her body, with this broken man in her bed.</p>
<p>"Oh, Peter!" she said, looking into his eyes, so he could see how the tears stood in her own.</p>
<p>"I'm not dead yet," he replied, as his face unexpectedly crinkled with the familiar grin. He held her chair for her before seating himself. "Though no thanks to Herr Hitler."</p>
<p>"I don't know what to say, except I'm glad."</p>
<p>"Mater sends her regards, and she thanks you for the latest book."</p>
<p>"Your mother is a delight, Peter, I don't know why you never introduced us."</p>
<p>His face was pure mischief. </p>
<p>"I read the book, Harriet. It was a flattering portrait. But it made me glad that you decided not to marry me. I'm not sure my ego could stand being put in a book by my wife."</p>
<p>It was true. The character of Neville was based on him, if in a way only the two of them would recognize. But he had been dead when she wrote it, and the dead can't complain.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Peter."</p>
<p>He cocked his head on one side.</p>
<p>"And, really, Harriet, <i>Neville</i>? No matter. I think I should pretend to be dead more often. I did it once before, you know. It was vastly entertaining finding out what people really thought of me."</p>
<p>She shook her head, surprised that after all that had happened, he could piffle on as well as ever. But though he kept the subject matter resolutely light, she sensed the underlying brittleness to his manner. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Wimsey sat wondering whether he had made a mistake in coming to see her. It was not that all his desire was awakened as strongly as ever. That he could keep under control, the old iron reflexes kicking in again smoothly to tamp down his feelings and hide them under a torrent of meaningless banter. No, it was the fact that in his relief to find her flourishing, and normal life going on as usual, it was all that he could do to stop himself from collapsing on her shoulder and weeping.</p>
<p>After Harriet's refusal, he had thrown himself into his work for the Foreign Office, and found a surprising peace in devoting all his energies to less egotistical ends. He had observed her from afar through her novels, feeling at first a puff of pride for the role he had played in encouraging her to challenge herself more in her writing, but later respect and awe for an achievement that demonstrated that even he had underestimated her. If he were to be honest with himself, he had to recognize that she had chosen well in walking away from him.</p>
<p>In his last days in England before leaving for France, and almost certain death, he had flirted with the idea of leaving a letter for her in his will. But he had recognized that it would be intolerable of him to so disturb her peace, even posthumously. He contented himself instead with leaving a few keepsakes for the spectacular Leonie, who had cheered him in Vienna before meeting Harriet, and in New York again after Harriet had said goodbye.</p>
<p>He had returned to find that while he had been dead, she had written to his mother, and that gave him reason to hope. Her manner today was even more encouraging. But he was a broken man now, and had nothing to offer her. So yes, it had been wrong of him to meet with her.  </p>
<p>He glanced around and noticed that the waiters were clearing the lunch tables and starting to lay places for dinner. The conversation had flowed easily, and he had not noticed time passing.</p>
<p>"I do apologize, my dear girl, for maundering on. It has been exceedingly good of you to be bothered with me like this. I shall stop making a nuisance of myself and go."</p>
<p>"Don't be ridiculous, Peter" she replied. "After all these years, you owe me more than that."</p>
<p>She put her hand over his, and he knew then for certain what she meant to do. He hoped she was not doing it out of obligation or pity, but at that moment, he did not care.</p>
<p>They rose to leave. Peter helped her into her coat, and held the door on the way out. They stood on the pavement looking uncertainly at one another.</p>
<p>"Should you like to come home and have some tea?" she asked, lamely. </p>
<p>"Why, I should like that very much indeed," he replied.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Afterwards, he slept in her bed in the slanting afternoon light, and she watched the rise and fall of his chest, the ribs visible, the shoulder-blades sharp and prominent. She remembered the last time she had watched him sleep, all those years ago on the river, and the sudden rush of protective instinct. This was a different man. Older. Tireder. Fragile. She touched his shoulder gently, and he shifted in his sleep, but did not wake.</p>
<p>It was early evening when finally he stirred. In the meantime, Harriet had dressed, and sat beside him reading a novel she had for review. She looked down and found that his eyes were open, observing her. She smiled at him. He rolled over onto his back and groaned, covering his face with his arm.</p>
<p>"Are you ill?" she asked, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps the exertion had been too much for him in his weakened state. </p>
<p>"No, no, no!" he said, and pulled himself up, indignant. "I'm not as decrepit as I may look. On the contrary, it was delightful. You were delightful. But it's just..... "</p>
<p>He paused, and she looked at him expectantly.</p>
<p>"I promised myself after Oxford that I would leave you alone, and... and... "</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>He looked sheepish.</p>
<p>"And I'm afraid I didn't put on such a great show." With a wave of his arm, he indicated the bed. "I always wanted everything to be perfect for you - with you."</p>
<p>That made her chuckle.</p>
<p>"Don't be such an egotist, Peter. You weren't doing all the work."</p>
<p>He made a wry mouth at that. He turned and swung his legs to the floor, and looked around for his clothes.</p>
<p>"What's the hurry? Is your mother expecting you?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"And Bunter?" </p>
<p>That brought him up short, and he paused before replying, his back to her.</p>
<p>"I cut Bunter loose, back before I left for Dieppe. I couldn't leave him hanging on in case I didn't return. He got his pension, and he's running a pub in __shire with his brother. I saw him a few days ago. He's happy. Settled. I mentioned I would see you again, and he sends his regards."</p>
<p>She reached out to him, and put her hand on his arm. </p>
<p>"I'm sorry to hear that, Peter."</p>
<p>He sighed, turned to her, and then continued reluctantly, as if despite himself.</p>
<p>"Harriet. I'm more messed up than you can know. I've been to hell and back twice in my lifetime. I can't in good conscience inflict myself on anyone, least of all anyone I care about the way I care about you."</p>
<p>"I can remember saying something similar to you," she said gently. </p>
<p>His unfocused eyes looked out and saw the past, not the present.</p>
<p>"... I suppose I've never been really right since the War. Can't stand responsibility. Rotten nerves. Nightmares. That sort of thing..."</p>
<p>"I thought it might be rather like that," said Harriet.</p>
<p>"And then they sent me to Dieppe. Or, God forgive me, I volunteered. I should have died rather than being captured, and having been captured, I couldn't let the Germans know who I was. They didn't treat officers badly. But I spent two-and-a-half years trying not to sleep, so my dreams wouldn't give me away."</p>
<p>"That sounds perfectly foul."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Harriet the last thing I should be doing is burdening you with this."</p>
<p>"For God's sake, Peter, if you and I are to mean anything to one another, we have to be honest with each other. And besides, at one time, I didn't hesitate to burden you with all my demons." </p>
<p>He bowed his head.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry. I'd forgotten. That sounds terrible. And what the devil am I doing, to remind you of that horror."</p>
<p>"If it hadn't been for that, we shouldn't be here."</p>
<p>He looked at her again and smiled.</p>
<p>"When I came back, and learned that you had written to my mother... I thought there was a chance you might care to begin again. So I was not wrong?"</p>
<p>"No, you were not wrong. But you might come here and show me again how you mean to go about it."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>May 1945. Peter is not so sure of himself. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter woke in the night, rigid, mouth clamped tight. It was one of the more recent dreams. He was on a cot in a vast dormitory. Soldiers in jackboots and long coats walked among the men, listening to their thoughts as they slept. He did not know what he knew, but he knew something. He had to remain awake, or they would sense it, and torture him to know the rest. </p><p>Gradually the contours of an unfamiliar bedroom came into focus, and his body relaxed. He sensed rather than saw the sleeping form beside him. Harriet. Good God! Harriet! He dimly remembered in a mind drugged with sleep and bad dreams how he had come to be in a bed in a strange room with Harriet beside him. There was something at the edge of his consciousness that niggled him about the scenario, but he could not remember exactly what it was. Luckily it had been that dream, and not one of the other dreams, where he woke screaming because men were dying horribly, and it was his fault. The perfect bed-fellow, as long as he remained awake, he thought bitterly. And not even that, now? Was that what was niggling at him?</p><p>He slid quietly from the bed, wrapped himself in Harriet's dressing-gown which hung on the back of the door, and padded down the passage to the sitting room. He sat some minutes on the sofa shivering. The army psychiatrist had instructed him to focus on something unrelated to his dreams in order to calm himself. And just as much as he had wanted to avoid a medical discharge, he did not want to risk presenting himself in a state of utter prostration to Harriet. So he forced himself to get up, switch on the light, and look around the room. In the long-past years when he had courted Harriet, he had been careful never to pass her threshold, so the surroundings were unfamiliar.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, there were many books. The classics. Modern popular literature. Several shelves organized by specialist topic: Poisons; Tides; Motorcycle maintenance. Spanish history - the research for various novels, he recognized. In a corner, low down, were her own novels, in order of publication. They took over most of a shelf, now.</p><p>Scattered around the room were several framed photographs. With an obscure sense that he was doing something furtive and ungentlemanly, he examined them, realizing as he did so that he knew very little about important aspects of Harriet's life, and in fact had never known, even in the days when he had thought he knew her well. </p><p>A mustachioed gentleman of the last century, Harriet's father, no doubt. Beside him, a dark-haired woman, younger, with a familiar forthright gaze. Harriet's mother. He vaguely remembered (from where? the trial perhaps?) that her mother had died when she was young, and that she had been raised mostly by her father and a spinster aunt. There was a graduation photograph, a younger Harriet, with a familiar air of defiance, on the arm of her father. There were several more recent photographs of tennis players. Evidently Harriet played quite a bit of mixed doubles these days. A vision of a tennis racquet in the entrance hall yesterday suddenly lit up in his mind's eye, and he felt again beneath his fingers the muscle in her upper arm. A photograph of Harriet in a hiking outfit, relaxed, smiling, beside a woman friend, with the Alps behind her. Had that one been taken during her European trip in the period when he had known her? Another photograph, most likely taken in the Lake District, with the same woman. Somewhat mysteriously, there was a recent photograph of an infant, unframed. He turned it over and read the inscription on the back: "To darling Aunt Harriet, from John, Phyllis and Lydia."</p><p>He sat back down on the sofa, the photographs arranged in front of him. They were evidence of a full and busy life. How could he fit into this life, with his bad dreams and his insecurities? Ten years ago, he would not have asked that question. He would just have presumed that her life would change as necessary to accommodate him. Had he grasped at Harriet again, in the hope that familiar patterns and emotions would bring back that kind of confidence? Did the fact that he was here, in her dressing gown, in her sitting room, justify that choice?</p><p>He confronted head-on the thought that had slid past him yesterday and that he could no longer push aside. Harriet was obviously a more experienced woman than the woman he had known ten years ago. She knew what she wanted, and how to ask for it. So had she slept with him out of a feeling of pity? What else could it have been, given how little he had to offer? With a jolt to his solar plexus, he realized suddenly that this was how she had felt, long ago, about him. Well if there was one thing he did know about Harriet - had always known - it was that she was honest. So he would just have to work up the courage to ask her. He would do it, he promised himself he would.</p><p>He put the photographs back in their places and shuffled back to bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 110A Piccadilly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>May 1945. Peter returns to 110A Piccadilly.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They listened together to Mr Churchill declare the end of the war in Europe, legs tangled in the sheets, smoking cigarettes.</p><p>Peter then took himself off to an hotel, to sort out the mess of his financial affairs. It seemed that coming back to life again after dying only risked the subject drowning once more in a sea of paperwork, or perhaps even throwing himself off a bridge in frustration.</p><p>The situation was not helped by the fact that Murbles, Peter's man of business, had died the previous year. Although the cagey old bird had kept meticulous records in a fire-proof warehouse well outside of London, the filing system he used had been stored only in his own head. By all accounts, the young solicitor who had taken over the practice was tearing his hair out in clumps. </p><p>Harriet kicked herself that she had not thought of this scenario for a novel before. It opened up such an interesting range of possibilities. Of course now the subject was for reasons of delicacy closed to her. And perhaps after all it would have been too much work to research all the legal complexities. </p><p>On Thursday, toward the end of what had clearly been a long and trying day, Peter called Harriet up with a strangely poignant invitation to accompany him as he opened up his flat for the first time in three years. The trustees who held it for his nephews under the terms of his will had given him the key, though formal transfer of ownership would have to wait. </p><p>Harriet was not quite sure what to read into his invitation. She supposed that in the absence of Bunter, she was the next best thing. Or more precisely, the fact of Bunter's absence was what rendered her presence necessary. </p><p>In the past, Harriet had not given Peter's relations with Bunter much thought. Gentlemen's personal gentlemen were not common in the circles in which she moved, so it had not really occurred to her that the relationship was in any way unusual. But now she did think about it, and she realized that for Peter, coming back from the dead to find Bunter happily ensconced in a new life had probably been something like finding his wife married to a stranger. And this was like returning to what had formerly been the marital home. She shivered a little at the thought of how close she had been at one point to coming between the two of them.</p><p>He was waiting for her downstairs as she arrived, looking if anything more faded and worn than two days previously. His face lit up when he saw her, as if he had been expecting her to stand him up.</p><p>"Thank you for coming." he said. "I'm sorry, I hope you don't misinterpret this. But I didn't really want to go alone, and I... "</p><p>"I'm touched that you asked me, Peter."</p><p>She slid her arm through his, and they walked upstairs. He turned the key in the lock, and reached with the confidence of habit for the light switches. The air inside the flat was stale. </p><p>"Saint-George used the place for a time, before his accident, but it's been empty ever since. Simcox - that's my agent - reports that it is habitable, with a little work. Let's see if he was right."</p><p>He stood back to allow her to enter the library. She vaguely remembered a handsome black-and-primrose room, with low bookshelves on three sides. It looked very different now, bathed in drab electric light, the bookshelves empty, the furniture covered in dust-jackets. She walked to the windows and drew back the blackout curtains, coughing a little in the dust they threw up. Peter stood still in the doorway, watching her as she looked out on Green Park. </p><p>"I had the books shipped down to Duke's Denver for safe-keeping." he said. "But the piano - it was just too much trouble." </p><p>She turned and noticed the baby grand, shrouded in white. He walked over, twitched off the cover, lifted the lid from the keys, and struck a note. </p><p>"I asked Simcox to have it tuned." He sat down and thought some moments before launching into the opening bars of a piece by Debussy. </p><p>He finished the piece, and sat with his hands in his lap, staring into the distance. </p><p>"There was a piano in the camp. I played a lot. It was a way of not having to think about anything."</p><p>For some reason, it was a confidence that had weight. She wondered what he had not wanted to think about. Well of course, there were the obvious things - the daily grind of the here and now, whether or when the war would end, whether one would ever be free to go home. But there seemed to be more to it than that. He had mentioned something, the other night...</p><p>"And now, do you play to forget, or do you play to remember?" she asked, playing for time in case more confidences were forthcoming.</p><p>"I don't know, Harriet." he replied uneasily, still facing the piano. "This business of adjusting oneself... It's harder to come home than I thought it would be." His tone shifted, and he continued, irrelevantly. "We had an orchestra. Some of the men were damned good musicians." And then: "There's something not quite right with this piano. I shall have to get somebody to look into it."</p><p>He got up and invited her to join him in looking through the rest of the flat. She had to admit that she was curious. While Peter lingered in the dressing-room making an inventory of what clothing was left, she wandered on. The bedroom was large, and had clearly been luxuriously furnished. But in the absence of personal possessions, it offered frustratingly few clues to the personality of the owner. The expansive bathroom was what most attracted her attention. She looked longingly at the deep tub. These days, even the ludicrously rich could not afford to wallow in a hot bath daily. </p><p>At the back of the building, there was a rabbit-warren of little rooms - kitchen, pantry, scullery, linen closets, a modest bedroom, and a small windowless room stacked with photography magazines which Peter reported had been used by Bunter as a darkroom. It all looked in serviceable condition, give or take cracked window panes, and a thick layer of dust. Given his apparent reluctance to visit the flat alone, Peter was surprisingly businesslike about things, only betraying a moment of emotion in the darkroom, which he passed over with haste.</p><p>After they had investigated thoroughly, trying every light switch and turning every tap, Peter finally turned to her. They were standing in the hall, and the last fading light from the drawing room windows fell on his feet, while his face remained in shadow.</p><p>"Harriet, there's something I need to ask you," he began rather hoarsely. "I trust you will answer honestly and not spare my feelings."</p><p>"You know that I will," she replied.</p><p>"Harriet - this week - the night before last - today - you are not doing this because you pity me, or because you feel you owe me anything?"</p><p>His voice was strained. She paused a moment to think about how best to express what she felt, conscious that he was expecting a serious answer, and that it was important to answer seriously to convince him.</p><p>"No, Peter." she finally replied. "It's definitely not either of those things. If I am to be completely honest with myself, I'm not quite sure of my own feelings. Perhaps after ten years, you are not the same person. But I do know this. Ten years ago, I loved you. And when I saw you again...." She shrugged impatiently. "Your hands haunted my dreams for years, Peter." </p><p>"Thank you," he answered gravely. </p><p>He pulled her close. They did not kiss, only she rested her head a long moment on his shoulder.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Jam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>May 1945. Lord Peter eats all the jam. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harriet sat down to a leisurely breakfast on Saturday morning, and was rather horrified to discover that the jam was almost gone. She could have sworn the jar had been full the last time she had looked. Peter must have eaten most of it, damn him. Harriet had in recent years got over any past scruples about having a gentleman friend to stay the night. But she did consider that things had been easier before rationing, as it seemed a little rude to ask the gentleman to bring his own jam. Oh well, there was no point getting too irritated about it. God knows, the man needed to eat, he was skin and bone. Hopefully they would feed him properly in Duke's Denver. </p><p>On Saturday mornings, Harriet had a standing appointment with some friends to play tennis. Harriet had never considered herself very competitive, and in her professional life, she had long tried to cultivate an aloofness from the views of critics, if not the public. But in recent years she had discovered an unexpectedly combative streak which she allowed free rein on the tennis court. That morning she played well, and she treated herself to a regulation-breaking 5 and a half inches of bathwater when she got home.</p><p>After lunch, she walked down Oxford Street, looking idly for a birthday present for her goddaughter. There was just as little to see in the shops as there had been for many months, but it seemed to her that there was an unusually large crowd of optimistic window-shoppers, eagerly anticipating an end to rationing. </p><p>She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a window. That last haircut had been a success, and the fresh air and exercise of the morning had brought colour to her cheeks. But after four years of make do and mend (even despite having the money to buy), her summer wardrobe was really very shabby. Perhaps, if she looked in one of the trunks stored in the attic, something unnoticed which could be delightfully made over would miraculously appear. She laughed at her own sudden and unwonted desire for adornment. She could not hide from herself the reason for this change. But Peter would not be back in Town for a fortnight, so she had time to work on her personal appearance.</p><p>Before leaving for a dinner-party that evening, Harriet climbed the stone stairs to the attic, and opened one by one the dusty trunks of discarded belongings. There was very little left in the way of pre-war clothing, most of it having been pressed into service already. At the bottom of one trunk, she finally found an untouched bundle of wine-coloured cloth. Good heavens! It was the evening frock that Peter had persuaded her to buy in Wilvercombe years ago. Though the design was outdated, there should be ample material to make something up in the more restrained style of today, and if he noticed, the garment's provenance would amuse him. She shook the frock out, and was disappointed to discover that the moths had got to it, and it was full of holes. </p><p>There it was, and she was forced to confront it, instead of just walking around in a daze of happiness. Did she and Peter have a future together, or would the relationship turn out to be but a faded relic of the past? Was she really ready to commit herself to a man whose psyche appeared to be damaged, possibly beyond repair?  </p><p>Being of an in-between generation, Harriet did not have close friends who had fought in the first war, but she was familiar with the stories of marriages poisoned when men returned home broken and despairing. Perhaps her sudden decision in the restaurant had been rash. It had certainly not been made out of pity or obligation; lust was closer to the truth, though she had not admitted it to him in so many words. But though no word of marriage had yet passed either his lips or hers, she knew that things could not continue much longer in that vein without giving rise to expectations.</p><p>Of course one could always continue blithely, hoping for the best, ignoring the currents beneath the surface until one or other of them were swept away. But that would not be fair to Peter, for if ever a man needed stability in his life, he did, now. </p><p>Damn him, she thought, always disappearing off when he's most needed. And with that rather ambiguous thought, she repacked the trunks, and headed back downstairs to dress for dinner.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Prostration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Summer 1945. Peter’s past comes back to haunt him. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Take me dancing, Peter!" said Harriet.</p><p>"Why this sudden desire for frivolity?" he asked. "Do you by chance have a new frock to show me?"</p><p>"How did you guess," she replied, smiling.</p><p>They were sitting on Harriet’s squashy old sofa, her feet in his lap, drinking tea. Peter had returned from the visit to his mother, and he had called to see her on her invitation.</p><p>His face lit up as she emerged from the bedroom in the new garment. It had cost her some effort to gather the coupons, but the result had been very satisfying. While not the precise shade of the Wilvercombe frock, it was very close. She twirled around to give him a better view.</p><p>“Darling, I would dance the sun and moon into the sea to see you dance in that frock.”</p><p>“Idiot,” said Harriet, as she pulled him to his feet, charmed that he remembered, and pleased that the frock had had the desired effect.</p><p>Later as they revolved smoothly to the strains of <i>'Round Midnight<i> she whispered in his ear that she loved him, and his arms tightened around her.</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>***</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Harriet was busy that summer. Her publisher, anticipating an end to paper shortages, was anxious to have a new Harriet Vane title to announce for an expanded print run in the autumn. The new book was set in Yorkshire, and she was out of Town a good deal while researching it.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>She encouraged Peter to join her on some of these trips, but he always found some excuse. She did not press him, as she suspected him of wanting to spare her any embarrassment attendant upon travelling together, unmarried. They had not discussed marriage, but it was understood that they would have to wait for some months for his death certificate to be rescinded.</i>
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    <i>By now, Peter was living in the Piccadilly flat, alone but for a daily cleaning service. He seemed to deal smoothly with the basics of independent life, for which Harriet was thankful. She remembered her own struggles in the year after her imprisonment, and understood the effort that it took.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>This effort was complicated by the legal and financial tangle he found himself in. Forty percent of his estate had been eaten up by death duties, and not having been formally a member of the armed forces at the time of his supposed death, these monies were forfeit. The remainder had been divided between Lord Saint-George, and a trust for his great-nephews. In a few short years Saint-George appeared to have dissipated most of his portion. Peter was distressed at the financial implications for his great-nephews of unwinding the trust, but navigated his way between guilt and a feeling that he could not possibly be a worse steward than his nephew.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Meanwhile, although still officially a non-person, he was being fought over by various different branches of military intelligence all of whom wanted the benefit of his expertise as an investigator and a former POW in preparing for proposed trials for war crimes in Germany. Harriet knew he was anxious to get back to work, but she anticipated that the work itself would be upsetting, and she worried that the government mandarins did not have Peter's best interests at heart.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>There were other cross currents too, about which he did not confide in Harriet. From the tenor of his dreams, she suspected that these were linked to the outfit that had sent him to Dieppe, and something that had happened there. But he never mentioned this in his waking hours.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When she was in Town, they saw each other frequently. Peter was an entertaining dinner companion, seeing the humour in his anomalous position, and making her laugh with tales of Kafkaesque red tape. He put himself at her disposal for trips to the theatre, the cinema, and dancing. He frequently accompanied her back to Mecklenburgh Square after these outings, and they savoured lazy Sunday mornings in bed with the newspapers. Harriet went so far as to ask him to bring his own dressing-gown, so he would stop robbing hers. Ever the considerate gentleman, he immediately complied.</i>
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  <i>
    <i>These quiet moments above all seemed to satisfy a hunger that he had for normality. But as the summer wore on, Harriet had the increasing impression that Peter was like an elastic band that was being stretched every day further towards breaking point. Usually infinitely considerate in bed, he was now more and more frequently possessed by fits of exigent and exhausting passion, which alarmed her not only by their reckless abandonment, but by being apparently automatic, and almost impersonal. She welcomed these episodes to some extent, because instead of dreaming, he would sleep afterwards as though stunned. But with each of these, she found him more firmly entrenched behind some kind of protective fortification, and herself becoming less and less a person to him.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Harriet wondered unhappily whether she had made a mistake in rekindling the relationship. Being preposterously fond of a person did not mean that one was good for him, or indeed the reverse. Clearly the man needed medical help, but she worried that it would wound his fragile pride terribly if she were to say this to him. She wrote to Peter's mother for counsel. The Duchess's reply, ranging over a variety of subjects, was not very satisfying. It amounted to saying "Let him find his own way out," which did not seem to Harriet like a very proactive response to a mind clearly traumatized by war. But from day to day, she postponed speaking up, hoping against hope that things would get better.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>One evening, Peter did not turn up to keep a previously-made dinner appointment. Accustomed to his scrupulous punctuality, her stomach tightened with worry. She used the restaurant telephone to dial his flat, but the bell rang on and on without an answer. With a feeling of foreboding, she took a taxi to Piccadilly.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>As she entered the building, she could hear the strains of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony wafting down the stairs. She galloped up, taking the stairs two at a time. The front door of the flat was ajar and the music blasted from inside. She followed it to the library. In the light falling from the open door, she could see Peter hunched up on the sofa in the darkness, head in his hands, rocking back and forth. She moved quickly to lift the needle from the gramophone record, and in the sudden stillness, sat down beside him and put her arms around him. Though the night was warm, he shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"Peter, dearest" she said softly, "Did something happen?"</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He looked at her, eyes wide and staring, and shook his head mutely, continuing to rock. She put her hand to his forehead. He had a temperature. With a feeling of rising panic, she wondered what to do.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>In her mind's eye, she could see Bunter opening the door of the flat and taking charge of a shivering Peter with smooth confidence. Should she call Bunter? No. Too much history there. What about a doctor? That was probably what he needed, but whom? Peter had mentioned an army psychiatrist, but she did not really feel competent to deal with Military Intelligence. What about Peter's mother? Too far away, and not really in a position to deal with this current crisis. Then she remembered that Peter had mentioned his sister had picked him up from the transit camp. That was it. Lady Mary was married to Deputy Commissioner Parker, formerly Chief Inspector Parker, who had investigated the case in which Harriet had been accused of murder. It should be straightforward to run the Deputy Commissioner down through Scotland Yard.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>After she had helped Peter to bed, and tucked him up with a hot water bottle and an aspirin, she reached for the telephone. She found it an effort to keep her voice steady.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"Deputy Commissioner Parker? This is Harriet Vane speaking."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Parker sounded surprised, but polite. "Miss Vane, this is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?"</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Harriet wasn't sure whether Peter had confided in his sister and brother-in-law about his current relations with her, but she didn't waste time with unnecessary explanations.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"It's about Peter Wimsey. I found him at his flat. He's taken a turn and seems really quite ill. I wasn’t sure whether to call a doctor. I thought I should tell his family, but I wasn't sure who to call... "</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"You did well to call me," said Parker reassuringly. "I'll tell Mary, and we'll be there straight away."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>She waited for them in the vestibule, so the bell would not disturb Peter.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh, thank you for coming!” she said in relief as they mounted the stairs. Lady Mary was a pleasant, brisk sort of woman in her late forties, with a surprisingly strong family resemblance to her brother. She greeted Harriet while her husband hovered tentatively in the background. He was grayer than Harriet remembered, with thinning hair, and a moustache that drooped even more, giving his face a mournful look. His gaze however was warm and pleasant, and he too held out his hand.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>Harriet motioned them to come inside.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“He’s in bed now,” she said, “He seems better, but perhaps you would care to check on him?” Lady Mary looked briefly back at her husband, then followed Harriet to the bedroom. Peter was curled in a ball on his side, trembling from time to time, but asleep. Lady Mary looked at him with affection and felt for his temperature. The fever seemed to have abated. She twitched the coverlet back over him where it had been tossed back, switched off the light, and they tiptoed out.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Back in the library, Parker was pacing around. He paused when his wife touched his arm.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t think he needs a doctor right away, but we need to talk.” said Lady Mary. She looked at Harriet with an experienced eye.  “Let me make us some tea - I think you could use something after the shock.”</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When the tea came, Harriet drank it thirstily, remembering suddenly that she had had no dinner. Thus fortified, she gave a brief explanation of what had happened. Husband and wife looked at each other. Clearly this was not unexpected.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"We've been afraid of this," said Lady Mary. "Peter... had a breakdown after the last war."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"He mentioned something like that," said Harriet.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"Interesting." said Lady Mary. "It's not something that he talks about much. Anyhow, it lasted about eighteen months. I don't mean he went out of his mind or anything, and he was always perfectly sweet about it. Only he was dreadfully afraid to go to sleep, and he couldn't make a decision or give an order... According to Mother, it used to happen again from time to time at the conclusion of a case, but that man of his, Bunter, always dealt with it. So when he first got back from Germany, we weren't at all sure that he should be living alone. But he refused to stay in the CRU, and he couldn't stand it at Duke's Denver with the family."</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"Can't blame him there," muttered Parker under his breath.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"We've tried to keep an eye on him, but he always seems to be busy." Lady Mary looked at Harriet appraisingly. "You...  Have you been seeing much of him these days?"</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Harriet saw no point in making any pretense about it.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"He hasn't been completely alone. We are lovers, and I really thought when he was free to marry, we would do so. But..." Here she stalled and drew breath, her piercing feeling of responsibility for the current crisis like physical pain. "I have been thinking for some time that he needs medical help, maybe a psychiatrist, and I can't forgive myself for not having suggested it before this."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Mary got up and put her arm around Harriet, who to her embarrassment, found her eyes welling up. "It's not your fault. Peter has always been like this. It's that absurd pretence that one hasn't got any weaknesses, so silly, because we all have, only our father never would hear of it... I agree about the psychiatrist. But I'm not really sure that shock therapy or something like that would be good for him."</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Parker cleared his throat diffidently. "Some of the men on the Force are recently discharged from the Army. I think they could help us identify the right person."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>***</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"My dear girl, I am most abjectly sorry," said Peter sheepishly.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He was sitting up in bed eating tea and muffins. Harriet perched on the side of the bed.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"From your appetite, I deduce that the patient is feeling better."</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"Yes, rather," he said, with his mouth full of muffin.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>She took a deep breath, and took his hand in hers. "I don't think you can go on like this, Peter. I don't think we can go on like this. And I would like us to go on."</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>He looked down at the coverlet and picked at it. </i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"I've made an appointment for you with a Dr Wilson at the Tavistock Clinic. I spoke with him at length. He seems like a reasonable sort of man. Very engaging on the topic of his research. You'd like him, I think. He can see you tomorrow morning.... Only if you want to, of course," she added.</i>
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</p><p>
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    <i>"I hate behaving like this."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"I know. Then face the facts, and state a conclusion. Bring a scholar's mind to the problem and have done with it."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He looked up at her and managed the familiar sidelong smile.</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"I believe you're quite right. Though I have a strong suspicion that I am being managed. If I weren't so full of muffin, I would object to it."</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"Don't be an ass, Peter," said Harriet.</i>
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</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Crown Matrimonial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>October 1945. Peter and Harriet get married at last. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wimsey-Vane. On the 8th October at Caxton Hall, London, Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, second son of the late Gerald Mortimer Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, to Harriet Deborah Vane, only daughter of the late Henry Vane, M.D., of Great Pagford, Herts.</p><p>Peter's death certificate being finally rescinded, they were free to marry. Fully disentangling his financial affairs would take longer, but that could wait. They married quietly before the Registrar on a Monday, with Parker and Lady Mary as witnesses. The new flat was not yet ready, so that evening they dined in a quiet restaurant in Soho before returning to Mecklenburgh Square. The following week, Peter left for Germany, to take up his service with the War Crimes Investigation Unit. </p><p>Extract of a letter from Helen, Duchess of Denver to Lady Grummidge:</p><p>... My dear! Can you believe it, Peter wires that he is married, yes, actually married, to that Vane woman of all people, and that the official notice will appear in the Times next week! Do you remember, he had a thing for her years ago? Though mercifully it came to nothing at the time. Probably nobody remembers about it now. I do think it would have been better, though, if they had chosen not to announce it in the papers.</p><p>I am very thankful that Gerald and I were not invited to the wedding (in a Register Office, thank God!), but I wish Peter would stop springing surprises on us. I suspect my mother-in-law of knowing all about it. However she is creaking with arthritis these days, so she could hardly have gone up to Town without telling us.</p><p>Well, it’s hardly the best match, but Harriet (as I suppose I must now call her) can’t be a day younger than 42, so at least whatever is left of the estate should still go to Jerry's boys. Obviously we are relieved that Peter is not dead after all, but it is so tiresome about the money. And I do hope my new sister-in-law can be trusted to look after Peter. He was in quite the state when he first came back, and with Jerry the way he is, we do <i>not</i> need another invalid in the family. I'm afraid Gerald caught Jerry with a hip flask again this morning. He had been doing so well since the summer, and we can't think who gave it to him...</p><p>Extract of a letter from Honoria Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Denver, to her daughter Lady Mary Parker</p><p>Polly dearest, </p><p>Thank you so much for Peter's wedding photograph. He looks so serious! Just like the day he had his first watch, and could hardly bear himself for fear it would come to pieces in his hands, or turn out not to be real, or something. Harriet looks genuinely lovely. As you know, I do wish I could have been there, but my arthritis has been bothering me a lot lately. It is quite the familial failing, and poor dear Paul was crippled towards the end, so I do hope that you have inherited the Wimsey genes in this respect at least, though really, you have turned out to be a Delagardie in your old age, though I never would have expected it when you were running about with that fellow Goyles.</p><p>Do you think dear Harriet loves Peter in the way he really needs? I shall know in a minute when I see her. Peter has promised that they will visit this weekend, so nice of them, because he is leaving next week. Harriet has written to me about this Germany business. She thinks it is good for Peter to be working, but is afraid that the work may be upsetting. And while he is much better since the summer, it is likely to be quite a strain. So I do hope the ridiculous Foreign Office, or Military Intelligence, or whoever it is, looks after him properly. And I hope Germany is not too damp, as damp does not suit him.</p><p>I am so pleased to hear that Peterkin is getting on well at St Paul's, and that he enjoys taking the bus on his own. I am enclosing his birthday present. Do tell him to buy what he likes with it, and not to worry about what his mother thinks....</p><p>Vincent Challoner to Reginald Newte, of the publishing firm Bonne and Newte.</p><p>Dear Reginald,</p><p>My client informs me that she wishes to continue to publish under her maiden name. However correspondence can now be addressed to her as Lady Peter Wimsey, 110C Piccadilly. She does not wish the fact of her marriage to be used in publicity for "Murder in York Minster" due to her husband's sensitive position in military intelligence.</p><p>Yours sincerely,</p><p>Vincent Challoner</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>1954 maybe? And they all lived happily ever after. Except Helen. She doesn’t know how to. AU.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harriet woke in a bad mood, which was not improved by tripping over a pile of books which Peter had left on the floor in the bedroom. She was never quite sure which was worse - to have to put up with the consequences of a husband of untidy habits, or to be surrounded night-and-day (especially night) by servants who picked up after him. The obvious solution - for her husband to learn to do it himself - was one she had briefly considered. But when one married a man already in middle age and set in his ways, some things were beyond hoping for. Remarkably, not even two-and-a-half years in a Nazi POW camp had brought out his practical side. As far as Harriet could make out, he had spent those years playing the piano in the camp theatre, and had practically starved to death for his inability to do anything more useful. </p><p>She thought grumpily about what Miss De Vine had said many years ago about the dangers of two equally independent and intelligent people marrying. Peter was just fine about the big things. But the minutiae of everyday life was where disagreement always arose, and that did not have much to do with intelligence. What would Miss De Vine know about marriage anyway, muttered Harriet to herself, never even having lived with anybody?</p><p>Peter himself had flown out to Berlin the previous evening. After working for the War Crimes Investigation Unit in the immediate post-war period, he was now permanently attached to MI-6. It was somewhat ironic, thought Harriet, that a man who talked so much worked for a secret intelligence service. But he enjoyed the work, and drawing a salary (however unnecessary) seemed to take the edge off his old responsibility anxieties. Moreover, it was a great relief to Harriet to have him out of the house all day. The months after the war while he had been on medical leave had not been good for her productivity, and they hadn't even been living together then.  </p><p>Harriet settled down after breakfast to continue adapting one of her earlier novels as a play. The BBC had produced two radio plays based on her work, and they had been a resounding success. Now they wanted a third. So far, Harriet had greatly enjoyed the process. In particular she enjoyed the challenge of figuring out what worked and didn't work as a play in contrast to a book. But this novel, written in a hurry at a time when she had been particularly short of money, was not one of her favourites, and she found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand.</p><p>Her mood was not improved by being disturbed mid-morning by a trunk call from Duke's Denver. It was her sister-in-law, Helen, looking for Peter, and so apoplectic with fury that Harriet at first could not make out what the problem was. Finally she understood that it was some complicated matter of an insurance policy the Duke had omitted to pay the premium for, and which was required for a mortgage that he had recently taken out unbeknownst to his wife. Whether Helen was furious with her husband for taking out mortgages without telling her, or with the bank for having the temerity to demand the insurance policy, or  with Peter for not being there to sort everything out, Harriet was not quite sure. She sighed, and promised to tell Peter when he called from Berlin that evening.</p><p>Peter's mother had been a dear, and very fond of Harriet. But she had died the previous year, at the ripe old age of 88. The rest of the family was rather chaotic, and Harriet usually did her best to avoid them. The finances of the estate having been thrown into disarray by a combination of the war and the subsequent Labour government, the Duke had retreated into a state of depression, from which he emerged periodically to go down to the stables to talk to the horses. The Duchess had reacted by attempting to keep up a Victorian standard of propriety in all things, with the result (in these more democratic times) that she found it impossible to retain household staff for any period of time. Lord Saint-George had married in the early years of the war, and produced two boisterous boys. Invalided out from the RAF and not having any solid source of income, he and his wife (who lacked vitality) lived with his parents, and seemed to spend all their time fighting with them over the boys' education. As the only solvent member of the family, poor Peter was frequently called upon to clean up messes like this issue of the mortgage.</p><p>That afternoon, Harriet was just getting into her stride with her work, when she remembered that she had a meeting with her agent to discuss a new contract. Damn it, she thought. There was just enough time to get there if she left immediately. She dashed out of the flat, and had just pulled up at the office in a taxi before she realized that she had left her purse on the writing desk. The cabbie was very good and waited while she went and borrowed ten bob from the receptionist. But Harriet cursed herself for being so stupid, and was unreasonably cross with poor Mr Challoner as a result, even though the shoddy deal she was being offered was not his fault.</p><p>So by the time she got home afterwards, she was just too tired to enjoy having the evening to herself. She had let the cook go home early, planning to dine out, but now she didn't have the energy. Instead she made some cheese-on-toast, and curled up in the drawing room with a guidebook to Greece. She and Peter were planning a holiday in the Greek Islands and she had bought the book to do some research. But the book was ponderously written, and the room was warm, so she dozed off until awoken suddenly by the telephone.</p><p>It was Peter, on an atrociously bad line from Berlin. She told him as best she could about Helen, and the mortgage, and he made some harrumphing noises. She didn't tell him about her contract; that could wait. He apologized for not calling earlier, but he had been trying to wrap things up quickly, so he could come home tomorrow. And suddenly all her bad mood melted away. He would be home tomorrow, and he would laugh at her about the incident of the taxi and poor Mr Challoner, and she would rail at him about leaving books on the floor in the bedroom, and they would go together to the theatre to see a play she had been wanting to see for some time.</p>
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